A Good Old Fashioned Fairytale
by i.amazonian
Summary: Because every modern soul needs a good old-fashioned story.
1. Unfortunately Perfect

**A Good Old-Fashioned Fairytale**

Because every modern soul needs a good old-fashioned story.

* * *

old-fashioned: /ˌəʊld ˈfæʃ(ə)nd/

-in or according to styles or types no longer current

So what happens when the modern times patterns itself to the stories of old?

* * *

Chapter 1:

Unfortunately Perfect

* * *

There is no such thing as a terribly unfortunate life that is perfectly enviable.

But if there ever is a life that comes close, it'd be Sherlock Holmes's.

An oddly disturbing piece of information if there ever was one, one that most people who knew or knows the man would shake their heads at immediately, but somehow a categorized run-down, _a summative_ _list, if you will_, always makes it somewhat undeniable.

Unfortunate Instance Point 1.

Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes lost their parents in their teenaged years. It had been a plane crash, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes's private jet bound for Geneva plummeting barely twenty minutes after take off. A so-called freak accident, blamed on sudden engine failure. Neither Holmes children consider it as such. Mycroft knew of his parents' power and the never-ending threats, Sherlock had snuck into the wrecked cockpit and raised an eyebrow at a gauge. Neither spoke of it, but both were pretty certain that the other knew.

The elder sibling went to school that day, all-too-aware of the responsibility he was bestowed with. He acknowledged, _accepted_, that he needed to be the parent now, and he wasn't going to be able to do that by skipping class. He had to be strong for the both of them, and when he came home that day, a poker-faced Sherlock greets him with an indifferent voice. _"I didn't go to school today. I won't from now on, Mother's not here anymore to force me." _Both still remember how he looked his younger brother in the eye, his face just as neutral but his voice slightly firmer. _"I'll be Mother."_

Not much can be said about the younger Holmes. He found school to be excessively bothersome, _because seriously, who wants to be surrounded by bumbling idiots?,_ and he wasn't even talking about the students, he found them easy enough to ignore. Their parents had always managed to get him to go despite his incessant and daily expressions of distaste, their father using alternating strategies of reward and punishment, their mother somehow always managing to render his arguments useless. He did, after all, get his mental prowess from Mrs. Holmes. And so he didn't attend class that day, no one was there to force him to, but if he'd only admit it to himself he'd know that it's because he didn't want anyone to see him cry. _Mycroft actually did get him to go to school the next day onwards. They didn't worry much about the lesson he missed. Sherlock always scoffed about it: Who needs to learn about the solar system?_

So why in the world would anyone envy him?

Of course, it's never an enviable thing to lose one's parents. The thing is, under normal circumstances, it would have stopped there. Two siblings, orphaned and left to continue life and grow up at a much quicker rate. Nothing else was supposed to happen… but of course something did.

About a year and a half after the tragic accident, the brothers are coping rather well. All the butlers and servants and poolboys and drivers and gardeners and whatever employees one might hire in an estate have decided to stay, caring for the brothers if only to repay the surprising kindness of the late Sir and Madame. Still unbelievably filthy rich, their parents had left them with bank accounts in every financially secure country in the world.

Enviable, yes, but hardly impressive. I mean, _anyone _can spend money.

Unfortunate Instance Point 2.

With great power comes great responsibility indeed, and having an inheritance that can shock the sanity out of 90% of the world's population isn't exactly a walk in the park.

Arguably the most well-known business couple of their time, the tycoon duo had built an empire from the ground up, multi-billion dollar companies that span four continents and involve a ridiculously large variety of categories. In complete confidence in their sons' eventual abilities, the couple had left everything, _everything_, in the hands of the then-19 year-old Mycroft Holmes, _also assigned legal guardian of Sherlock Holmes_. Time-bound, of course, giving the younger one a 49.1% hold over everything the minute he turns eighteen.

With 35 employees in the estate's West Wing alone, the magnitude of the sudden responsibility thrust into the brothers' hands, _especially Mycroft's_, reached miles past overwhelming. Contracts, legal bindings, the in's and out's of their parents' business empire. The courage to step in front of different people thrice your age and ten times your experience and try to exude authority. Dealing with liars and frauds, opportunists who in every minute of every day smell the chance to pounce. The stock market, investment pulling, expansion plans, currency fluctuations. Hiring, firing, budget cuts by the billions, revenue showings in increments of 6 million per 5 percent, salary and wage issues of approximately twenty thousand employees per building. Seemingly menial things like logo changes. What, where, when, why, how. Yes and no weren't enough anymore. It turned into probably, in _n_ years, yes but we'll have to alter the conditions, no but the construction can be moved three degrees to the south, and so on and so forth.

Who in the world wants that? Physics midterms are hard enough; most people can barely pass high school.

So why in the world would anyone envy him?

Well, they coped. The situation may have been too much for most people, but the Holmes brothers were _not_ most people. It would be a complete and utter lie to say that it was easy, _as able as they are they're still human_, but it would also be a preposterousness to suggest that there was any doubt in their adolescent minds. Proud boys, those siblings, and for good reason. There were sure they can because _they can_, and any annoying, seemingly good-natured adults who so kindly offered to take over for the _poor little boys, they're just children!, _can just sod off.

Mycroft, with a discipline that most students can only hope to have and an innate authority that only appears in more businessmen's dreams, had bravely put on the metaphorically oversized shoes of his parents and slowly but surely managed to fill them out inch-by-inch, until he was marching in them as comfortably as he would in his own skin. Sherlock, on the other hand, had no patience for dealing with pathetic little old men trying to climb the proverbial ladder by stepping on each other's faces. Initially completely disinterested in gatherings among men with, in his words, _the beards and brains of goats_, he started attending board of trustee meetings in the headquarters at Mycroft's insistence (_"These are your companies as much as they are mine, Sherlock."_), and pretty soon he's doing his homework on the plane, regularly accompanying his brother as his right-hand man. Armed with five senses that never miss and a mind that never fails, the barely teenaged Sherlock had gotten used to barely-contained eyebrow-raising whenever he strolls into conference rooms behind his far more credible-looking brother. He doesn't mind, though, because usually five minutes into the meetings he'd have had deduced the living daylights out of each and every one of them, and a tenacity like no other gives him no hesitation at all to _showcase_ his findings. It had always left everyone around the executive table wide-eyed and gaping, except for Mycroft who'd merely roll his eyes before continuing with the agenda. The brothers would then share approximately seven looks per hour, both knowing whenever their leg is being pulled, with Sherlock immediately deducing the truth and the reason. _And the person's birthday, but that's hardly relevant._

They were quite the team, _still are, but if you tell them that, they will treat it as an insult_, and it had only been a matter of time before the business world started to recognize the emergence of a new Holmes duo. Problems continue to pour, as is with everything in this world, but by the time Sherlock turned eighteen, the brothers were already solving them in their sleep. Difficult situations happen every single minute of the day, but by this time, it was already second nature.

Young, rich, powerful… as a result, famous.

Unfortunate Instance Point 3.

This would be the one that annoys Sherlock the most. There are lots of pathetic problems that comes with fame, and of all the complications in his life it had been the popularity package that drove him to a certain phase that he isn't particularly proud of. In fact, in his heart of hearts, _both of which people all agree he might not have_, he knows he's downright ashamed to have been weak enough to succumb to the clutches of cocaine.

It was a long time ago, he'd been clean for years now, but fame had pushed him to a level or irritation that was almost inhuman. He's sure it was hard on his brother too, but Mycroft is such a people-pleaser that he never lets his distaste for the unwanted attention show. Sherlock is a different story however, and he had no problem expressing every single thought that ran through his frustrated mind. He soon realized, again via Mycroft, that it caused a lot more problems for the companies that it solves, and forcing himself to comply with people's expectations without letting them know exactly what he thought of them took its toll.

It's not that he couldn't achieve what people expected of him. On the contrary, he believed they were easy enough. No, his problem was that he just didn't give a tiny rat's arse about the superficial definitions people attach to his name, and he found it tedious beyond belief to try and please them. Why would he care how he appeared to people?

So why in the world would anyone envy him?

Simply put, if he just tried the slightest bit, the world would probably be fawning all over him.

He doesn't care about his facial features. He keeps himself presentable but nothing is ever done to _improve_ his "face value". Stupid, pointless, moronic. And yet, with no effort at all, he's still widely considered to be _good-looking_. He treats his body no differently: bathing for the sake of hygiene, not vanity, eating for the sake of nourishment and pleasure, not weight management, engaging in the occasional non-team sport for leisure, not body sculpting. Still, his state of fitness is enough to make the average passerby jealous.

It wouldn't even be of any use to him to try and defend his mental capabilities: it justifies itself. Unbeatable perception and a completely reliable memory, the only plausible reason for him not to know anything is if he chooses not to. Consider his ridiculous penchant for deduction and it's too ridiculous to imagine.

Save for that cocaine phase, it would be safe to say that Sherlock Holmes is a _good_ man. No true criminal record, _quite a few juvenile cases though, stealing evidence to solve mysteries faster than the police even as a child is not exactly abiding by the rules,_ no true scandals, _well his parents did die famously and his antics during meetings did get widely known, but it's not like he's ever killed anyone by deducing where they went to dinner last night_, no nothing. Never broken a heart, _not intentionally at least_, and if Mycroft is being really honest, he'd say that Sherlock is a good brother. Mind-numbingly infuriating, but a good brother nevertheless.

There are a lot of things that the world might disagree upon, _against him or against each other_, but simply put, he's not really inclined to care. He's a virgin, and it's not for a lack of offers. Somehow, he sees the idea of sex for _sex_ way too… pointless, and not that he's ever dreamed of marriage but if he were to engage in those _activities_ for pleasure and/or procreation, he imagines he'd rather do those with a wife, legally bound. He wouldn't like sharing, especially with things like that, and his ego dictates that should a woman ever deserve him, she must be a woman of so high a quality that it would only be _him, self-proclaimed "only non-idiot in the world"_, who'd be able to deserve her in return. We all know what that means, and not everyone would agree. Actually, very few would agree, which is probably why the whole romance-marriage issue is not something he's ever paid attention to. There's also the matter of morality and belief. Now Sherlock has never been a religious person. There's just a little too much, _alright, way too much_, pretention between the churchgoers he used to come across. The very same churchgoers claim to _need_ God and yet parade themselves around like they're God's gift to men and force their opinions at the expense of others as if they're God Himself. One thing though that people find hard to believe is his stance on the existence of God. He does, in fact, believe in a Creator and an afterlife, both having been solidified in his mind by his own philosophy (_…whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth.). _He'd even go as far as to claim to be a Christian, if it weren't for those who'd use the name to spread oppression. _Hypocrites_, he'd always think whenever he sees someone claim that homosexuals don't deserve salvation when he can see by the person's cufflinks that he'd already cheated on his wife twice that day. _Hypocrites, hypocrites, hypocrites._

The social aspect would probably be considered his absolute worst area, and it is, if it wasn't for one small thing: He. Just. Doesn't. Care. He doesn't feel the need to make friends, and he would never suppress the need to say what he wants to say, not caring if it offends people or makes them uncomfortable. There is nothing wrong with being right, so why in the world would he hide it? A lot has grown to dislike him for his almost complete lack of social etiquette, but it has always been no big deal for him. He genuinely feels that socializing is just plain useless, _not to mention boring_, and so he's actually glad that people find it hard to get along with him. Enviable, because the rest of us mortals would take it hard if people didn't want to be acquainted with us. Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, is happy with that. And in the big picture, isn't happiness what we tend to envy the most?

Happiness, at least in this, is still a story waiting to happen. And so in the spirit of things:

_Once upon a time..._


	2. A Point in Quarters

**A Good Old-Fashioned Fairytale**

Because every modern soul needs a good old-fashioned story.

* * *

old-fashioned: /ˌəʊld ˈfæʃ(ə)nd/

-in or according to styles or types no longer current

So what happens when the modern times patterns itself to the stories of old?

* * *

Chapter 2:

A Point in Quarters

* * *

"No."

"Oh come on, Sherlock, it's my—"

"No."

A frustrated groan escapes John Watson's lips. He wants to scream, but he doesn't really want to make a scene in such an elegant place.

"But you have to! It's tradition!"

He doesn't even look up from his desk, his ridiculously unorganized office desk, his eyes trained to the latest progress report on the construction of the new Asian headquarters in Japan. A cost figure catches his attention and he frowns, half-heartedly replying to his best friend.

"Ah. So it's tradition that I reduce myself to be stupid enough to wear a flower on my chest. Uh… no."

"It's not a flower! It's a boutonniere!"

Still not looking at John, Sherlock flips the page and another number makes his eyebrows furrow slightly.

"And what is a boutonniere, John?"

"It's a—" He stops for a bit, knowing that once again he's pinned to a corner. "—flower."

Sherlock glances up at him without moving his head, peering at him with a look that seemed to say "_And you're still defending it… why?"_. John gives him a mocking glare of his own, before sitting down on one of the leather couches and slumping.

"Well you still have to wear it. Mary wants you to, and if you have that big a problem with that you could go to her flat and tell her yourself. Let's see if the mighty Sherlock Holmes holds a candle to a woman who has her wedding coming up in a week."

He finally closes the folder, figuring out exactly why there was a significant discrepancy in the costing: _The paint! They've changed from beige to white and they failed to report the price change._ He writes "paint" on a sticky note, attaching it to the folder before dumping the thing into his _for Mycroft_ box. He looks at his friend, who has not moved save for the newspaper that is now in his hands.

"And along with that stupid flower, you want me to wear a mask for the reception? Where in the world do you get these ideas?"

This time it's John who doesn't look up from his newspaper, only smirking slightly.

"Mary."

And this time it's Sherlock who groans. He stands up and walks toward the glass wall, faintly thinking about the next time the three of them could go bother Lestrade for problems to solve. He never gave them any (_You have a lot on your plate already, Sherlock! You own a company for crying out loud!), _but they've always managed to meddle anyway. It's been quite a long time since their last adventure, with John and Mary getting engaged and planning their wedding. It had left Sherlock alone and bored of solving _company problems, they're too easy!_, bored enough to go cake-tasting and location-scouting with the couple. They've been kicked out one-too-many times from shops and whatnot because of Sherlock constantly finding it necessary to blurt out the cake recipe's secret ingredient or the fact that the hotel manager is courting his own son's girlfriend, but they brought him along anyway. He rolls his eyes, but a small smirk graces his face.

"That woman is going to be the death of me."

John laughs, folding up the newspaper. He looks at Sherlock.

"You and I both. But I love her, so you're going to have to too."

Sherlock's face doesn't change, but John's heart warms: he knows how much Sherlock is attached to Mary now. They clashed a lot at the start of John and Mary's relationship, with Sherlock being his usual tactless self and Mary refusing to cower under his glare and his increasingly personal deductions. She started joining them in their sleuthing escapades, initially just being concerned for John's safety but soon discovering she enjoyed it a whole lot. Sherlock was annoyed, to say the least, and John didn't want her coming along because of the element of danger, but she shrugged them off. It took a lot of cases and several stunning displays of medical expertise on Mary's part before the men became accustomed to the fact that their duo had now become a trio. Time came when Sherlock started finding Mary's inputs useful, sometimes even more so than John's. Being the emotionally challenged robot that he is, Sherlock would never admit that Mary has become important to him as a valued _friend, _a title that he had only previously awarded to John.

"Mary's not too bad. She actually makes _you_ a lot easier to tolerate."

John merely rolls his eyes.

"Gee, thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffs and walks to the closet, _because of course, the Holmes brothers do have closets in their headquarter offices_, putting on his coat and pocketing his scarf.

"No problem. So—" He looks to him, his eyes expectant. "—lunch?"

John stands up and walks to the elevator where Sherlock is already waiting.

"You still have to wear the flower next week."

The elevator doors open and Sherlock walks in, speaking but ignoring his friend's statement.

"Will Mary be joining us for lunch?"

John merely laughs, following him into the elevator and slapping him lightly at the back of his head.

* * *

Molly Hooper is a woman quite skilled at being alone: This applies to all connotations of the term _"being alone"_. For one, she's been fending for herself since she graduated high school. The eldest of three siblings, she had also refused any assistance from her father, insisting that he concentrate his efforts and resources on her two brothers. No husband, no boyfriends, and she also has no problem whatsoever with being literally alone, which is perfect for her profession of choice. Being a doctor of pathology doesn't give her much company, a mortuary isn't the _liveliest_ of places, after all.

Most people would have a hard time deciding which one is more terrifying: standing alone in the middle of the night surrounded by dead bodies or walking amongst living souls in broad daylight every day of your life and still be alone. Molly would probably politely raise an eyebrow at the choices: _What's so terrifying? Sounds like a normal day to me._

And so here she is, in her beloved morgue, alone. It's 12:30 in the afternoon and she's already touched more corpses that day than most could in a lifetime. She doesn't mind though, she'd choose quality time with her deceased "friends" over going on dates or partying any day. She hums as she rolls another body onto a slab, a sound soon interrupted by the banging of the mortuary doors.

"Good afternoon Molly!"

She looks at her friend with slightly questioning eyes.

"What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be swamped with last-minute planning?"

Mary's smile remains, and it's starting to unnerve Molly. "I am, but I thought maybe today I'd take my best friend in all of London out to lunch."

Her eyes widen. "Oh no. Oh no no no no no."

"What?"

"You're going to make me do something again, aren't you?"

"Oh come on Molly! Can't I eat lunch with you without any hidden agenda?"

Molly stares at her expressionlessly, and soon enough Mary's smile fades.

"Alright fine! I see working with Sherlock often has made you develop your deduction skills."

She fights all her natural instincts, not wanting to blush at the mere mention of that man's name. She is in love with him, plain and simple, but there's a part of her that doesn't want to be. Which is why she narrows her eyes lazily at her friend, _who knows how she feels and still wouldn't stop inserting his name into every conversation they have_, her words interlaced with a sigh.

"You're pure evil, Mary. What do you need me to do?"

Her usually stern friend breaks into a squeal. "See this is why I love you, Molly! Come on, let's discuss it over lunch."

Mary makes a move to grasp her arm and drag her out, but Molly avoids it, moving towards the next slab. She feels the repressed excitement she always does when a new body bad is wheeled into the morgue, not unlike the contained glee she used to get as a child whenever a gift stares her at the face, ready to be unwrapped. She feels bad to be actively anticipative of new dead bodies, _it's terribly tantamount to waiting excitedly for another life to cease, for death to cast another curse, _but she can't help it. Passion is passion, she loves what she's doing, and she knows that her findings do help with giving closure to a heartbroken family or providing information for the Yard, so she forgives herself for finding joy in a lifeless corpse. _Besides, gifts in her childhood were almost rarer than two blue moons in a row, and now it's like she works in a room where it's her birthday everyday._ She sighs at her friend's expectant look.

"I'm working, Mary. Sorry, can't go to lunch."

"But it's your lunch break!"

"I'm really sorry Mary, but there are two new bodies to examine and I really want to finish early today."

"Oh come on! John got his best man to go to lunch, I should have my maid of honor too!"

She stiffens slightly but she manages to shrug it off, shooting her friend a look.

"I'm only your maid of honor because I introduced you to John."

"After which we became closer and closer until we've practically become sisters. Come on Molly, it's just lunch, don't you want to grab a bite with me?"

She continues circling the body, jotting down her preliminary notes on the evident surface conditions of the corpse, her friend's question eliciting a sigh from her lips. Mary knows her extremely well by now, knows how awkward she becomes around a certain _person_, and more than anyone she knows how Molly Hooper is pitifully in love with the worst man anyone could possibly fall for. Mary looks at her, an eyebrow curved.

"Well?"

"Look, Mary, I r-really don't t-think—"

"We're not going to have lunch with John and Sherlock, if that's what you're so worried about."

She ponders for a moment, and she tries her best to keep the relief out of her voice. Closing her notebook, she makes a mental note to do her in-depth voice-log after _lunch_. As usual, there's not much she can say now, with Mary probably already listing their lunch orders in her head. She gives her a relatively cheerful smile.

"In that case, lunch sounds great."

Mary returns the smile with one of her own, one that might as well have jumped off her face, walked up to Molly and patted her on the head. She knows her friend; she knows how strong the pathologist really is, so how is it that an insufferable, unfeeling man with a terrifying lack of social ability can reduce her to a meek, mousy mess? Yes, Sherlock Holmes is practically family to her now, _she and John actually think of him as their overgrown child_, but that doesn't change the fact that he is, in her opinion, utterly undeserving of Molly's affections. It really is one of life's biggest mysteries why Molly feels the need to _hide_ from him, both in a literal and a figurative sense. She walks to the door and watches her friend tidy up, her eyes exuding both annoyance and understanding.

"You know I love you, Molly, but you're pathetic."

Molly doesn't even frown, her head absent-mindedly nodding as she zips the body bag up.

"I know."

* * *

"So how's the piano practice? Everything going fine?"

She sighs resignedly mid-bite, the half-ground shrimp in her mouth suddenly tasting less like shellfish and more like… _nervousness, whatever that tastes like._

"I g-guess. I still don't know why you've asked me to play. Isn't your first dance supposed to be perfect?"

Molly chuckles lightly. "Yes, it's why we chose you."

"That makes complete sense, Mary." She reacts sarcastically. "To play the piano, you hired someone whose fingers freeze and cramp up just thinking about playing in front of people. I would've refused point blank if you hadn't asked me in front of your parents. I'm not even good at it."

"What are you talking about? I've heard you play lots of times! You're fantastic!"

Her blush is hidden. "T-that's… w-well, it was only y-you and me at my flat at those instances. And the p-pieces were relatively simple."

"Oh stop it with the modesty. John and I think you're talented, and we don't see why we should hire someone else when someone important to us can do it perfectly well."

She lets out a slight whimper. "Is it too late for me to back out?"

"A week before my wedding? Would you really dare break my heart like that? I mean, think of—"

"Alright, alright! But if I faint in the middle of the song it will not be my fault."

Mary unleashes a beaming, toothy grin, the sides of her eyes crinkling in anticipation. She gazes at her friend as she sulkily continues eating her seafood carbonara, her own nicoise salad lies on the table barely touched. Molly notices the silence that's usually inexistent whenever Mary is around, and she raises her head to discover that her gaze is focused on her. Confusion shows on her face, and with some pasta still in her mouth she awkwardly asks. "What?"

"I was just wondering..." Molly stares at her friend wordlessly. "Have you found a date yet?"

A poor scallop finds its way back up her throat and struggles to force it back down. "D-date? I told you already, I'm not bringing one."

"Well Sherlock doesn't have one either and—"

"Mary…" Her tone is a warning. Her friend laughs in reply.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I'm actually asking because this friend of mine—"

"Oh no. That's what you wanted me to do, isn't that? Mary, you know I don't like being s-set up! It's so awkward and I don't enjoy being blind-sided like that, it's too—" She's about to go into her typical awkward Molly-ramble, and Mary decides to intervene. _For both their sakes._

"It won't be like that. I was just going to ask if I can sit him beside you in the reception. There's a place beside you that was supposed to be for your plus-1, but since you're not bringing anyone I thought it'd be easier if he just takes it."

She loosens up in relief, turning her attention back to her plate. "Of course! It's you wedding, you don't have to ask me for permission."

"Well I know you feel a little uneasy amongst new people."

"Still, it's your prerogative. Besides, it's not like it's a big deal, we'll all be wearing masks. That will help me pretend to be completely fine with absolute strangers talking to me." A nervous giggle underlines her words, but she rushes to assure her friend. "I'll be fine, Mary, don't worry."

"You know, I could just sit you between Sherlock and my sister. At least you know them both."

There's that heartbeat skip again. Molly rolls her eyes at herself, _isn't it supposed to have gotten old by now?_ "But I'm your maid of honor, shouldn't I be seated beside you?" A sigh graces her lips yet again, but it's more because of the absurdity of the suggestion rather than some sort of bitter resignation. _After all, she's accepted the unfortunate fact a long time ago._ "And you know, I think I'd be more comfortable with a stranger. I mean, your sister is lovely and I have no problem with her. It's the tall, pale CEO with the ability to make the queen feel unimportant that frightens me."

"Oh Molly. Sherlock's just an arse in the form of a genius. I don't know why you have to be like that around him." Molly rewards her with a pointed look. "Yes, yes, I know you love him, but you don't see me acting that with John, do you?"

"John is a wonderful man. He's not a rude, arrogant, unfeeling machine."

"Which is why I find it so hard to imagine why an amazing girl like you would ever fall for a rude, arrogant, unfeeling machine like him."

"I don't think you'd want me to explain it to you again. Those reasons are valid, I'm not just a schoolgirl with a crush."

"See? Why don't you show this _real_ Molly to him? Seriously, you always act so small around him, it's ridiculous."

She merely shrugs, a lazy "don't know" finding its way through the strands of pasta.

"If you ask me, I think he'd fall for the true Molly."

"Dear Lord, I hope that never happens. I mean, I'm sure it never will and I pray it stays like that."

"Why?"

"Why? I'm having a horrible time getting over him now that he's not at all interested, can you imagine how hard it will be if for some miraculous reason he suddenly is?"

A million questions run through Mary Morstan's well-trained mind, but she settles instead for a bite of her salad and thinking that her friend, _Doctor_ Hooper, is absolutely off her rocker.

* * *

Note: This chapter, even as it might seem a bit filler-like, is intended to set the tone for the relationship between the halves of the four main characters in this story arc. The author hopes that it has done just that. With that said, the author is certain that there is one initial interaction that the reader is most probably looking forward to more so than any others, and the author herself cannot wait to discover it on her writing pad.


	3. Mirror Mirror

**A Good Old-Fashioned Fairytale**

Because every modern soul needs a good old-fashioned story.

* * *

old-fashioned: /ˌəʊld ˈfæʃ(ə)nd/

-in or according to styles or types no longer current

So what happens when the modern times patterns itself to the stories of old?

* * *

Chapter 3:

Mirror Mirror

* * *

Mirrors usually evoke very different reactions from he who dares to take a glimpse. Beauty and all its connotations let vanity or insecurity rise to the surface, neither one really healthy in excess of a smidge. The person in the mirror might possess a scar from a childhood wound that either brings about a feeling of slight impurity or acts as a reminder of how one fell from a tree while having the time of his life as a child. Every single thing that is reflected from that shiny surface might hold a memory of pride, or of humiliation, or of triumph, or of pain.

Whenever Molly Hooper gazes into a mirror, she isn't sure what she sees.

It's not that she's not genuine. No, it's because she's _too_ genuine. Too much that who she is is whomever it is that you'd see when you look at her. Cheap, simple clothes: not wealthy at all, but doesn't try to hide under a more _posh_ illusion. That's completely true, but sometimes her desire for _something more_ shows. That part of her is genuine too, because she'll never be ashamed of dreaming for success, and with it, wealth. She hopes for a day when she won't have to buy kitten-print jumpers just because they cost a little less. _She does adore kittens though._

A laboratory coat peeking out her bag denotes a scientific profession, cleanly trimmed fingernails give an idea of how her line of work involves some sort of intricate manual processes, powder residue on her hands indicate the usage of gloves. If one looks closer, dark circles under her eyes show late, long hours, but the absence of an unnatural tone of skin near it proves no attempt at masking. A relaxed forehead shows that she has no problem with being at her job for longer than is usually accepted, and she knows that to be true. However, again a desire to be something more sometimes reveals itself for everyone to see: It doesn't mean that she doesn't love pathology, _she does, she really does_, but is it so bad to dream of a medical facility that bears her name?

The lack of a wedding ring and spit marks on her clothes display the obvious: no husband, no children. She won't be ashamed to admit that even though she's always been independent, she's always dreamed of having a family of her own. Her friends, rare as they are, are wonderful, and the term _"boyfriend" _has never appealed to her as much as _husband_ does, so it's never fake whenever she insists that she's not interested in casual dating. However, it doesn't mean that she doesn't long for romance, or wonder how it must feel like to wake up on Mothers' Day to the smell of burnt pancakes and orange juice that doesn't just have pulp in it but also seeds, right next to a man that had already arranged for a Michelin-starred dinner for them (_for four, because she's always wanted two children_). She dreams of scolding her children or arguing with her husband, because she knows she'll love them too much to just let them do the wrong things. She hopes they'll do the same for her.

She often wonders, as she stares into the eyes of mirror-Molly like she's doing right now, why she's longing so much for these things. Intelligence and accomplishment don't necessarily make one a better person (_her eyes wander to the nose she apparently got from her father's mother_). There are more important things than riches, she's sure, and her eyes travel to her lips, _the mouth that her father had given her and subsequently fed._ Her eyes lift slowly and they rest back at mirror-Molly's eyes, looking deep into her own soul, and just like every other day she reminds herself that love is a weapon, that loving too much is a danger like no other. So she stands, like she does everyday after work with the mirror greeting her as she opens the door, _staring frozen at her mother's eyes_, and she reminds herself that love _breaks_.

That would be that, if only she wasn't too transparent. She always feels like mirror-Molly would roll her eyes at her if she could. She does believe in all that, but that's the thing with being completely exposed to who you are: you can't deny one part for the other. She does believe that accomplishments don't make you important and intelligence doesn't make you better than everyone else, but her dreams are still alive. You don't need money to be happy, she believes in that too, but she's not a hypocrite: if she can be rich _and_ happy, she'll choose that over being happy and dirt-poor. She believes that love _can _destroy, but that the bottom line is that _she's in love_, and there's no denying that.

And then there's Sherlock Holmes. The face in her dreams, the big bad monster in her nightmares. There's almost no sign of Sherlock in her appearance, at least none that her non-superpowered eyes can see, but for some reason she thinks of him anyway. It's almost painful to know that she doesn't even need any reminder for her brain to bring him up. After all, you can't be reminded of something you never stop thinking of.

_Sherlock Holmes._

The main source of conflict and confusion in her life, the biggest kindling to the fire of consistent contradiction living insider her. Quite possibly the most magnificent, most brilliant male specimen she has ever encountered, Sherlock Holmes also ranks as the worst human being she has ever had the misfortune to meet. Amazing, arrogant. Brave, reckless. Confident, proud. Elegant, snobbish. Perceptive, insensitive. Determined, manipulative. Honest, tactless. Authoritative, demanding. Frank, hurtful. The list could go on and on, her head full of positive-negative tandem descriptions about the famous younger Holmes. Her own heart is divided into a part that wants to be with him, and a part that wants to run away and never look back. She often wonders why she always feels the previous part overpower the latter, why she always finds herself longing for the prince more than wanting to get over the royal jerk.

Mirror-Molly rolls her eyes once again.

_You know the reason, Molly Hooper._

And she does. Because even though her heart may be divided into two, she's sure that she loves the man _whole-heartedly_. She is only divided as to how she actually feels _about _what she's feeling. She shakes her head at herself. She knows the harsh reality of love and everything about it, but she can't stop herself from dreaming, _believing _that something good always comes from loving someone truly, one way or the other, obvious or not.

Suddenly she's staring at her eyes once more, _her mum's eyes_, and Mirror-Molly questions her yet again.

_Are you sure about that?_

She sighs, like she always does, tearing her eyes away from her reflection to put a stop to her pain, even for just a few hours. Until tomorrow when she'll be forced to glance at that damned thing again, that blasted mirror on the wall.

_Who's the biggest fool of all?_

* * *

Note: Considering that this is the last of the three-part study of the main characters... A Good Old-Fashioned Fairytale officially starts on the next chapter! The author hopes that that news brings about some inkling of excitement in the audience, as it certainly does in herself. Also, the author, in a small wish to interact with her readers, will be asking for opinions and/or answers throughout the story, and hopefully she will be able to reply in kind for the readers' participation.

So... what does the reader think? :)


	4. The Spell's Hold

**A Good Old-Fashioned Fairytale**

Because every modern soul needs a good old-fashioned story.

* * *

old-fashioned: /ˌəʊld ˈfæʃ(ə)nd/

-in or according to styles or types no longer current

So what happens when the modern times patterns itself to the stories of old?

* * *

Chapter 4:

The Spell's Hold

* * *

Just like every other day of the week, she's in her beloved morgue, content with being alone. Just like every other day, she takes in new members of her little circle of friends, creepy as that may sound. Just like every other day, she feels that conflict inside her whenever a new _friend_ is wheeled in, one where she can't decide whether to be sad for another death or glad for another post-mortem. Just like every other day, she accidentally glances at the clock and wonders where the day has gone.

But unlike every other day, she doesn't catch herself glimpsing at the door, hoping to see it swing open and reveal the three people that make her after-hour shifts at the morgue more exciting. Unlike every other day, she doesn't feel a second conflict inside her, one where she either wishes to see the great Sherlock Holmes tonight or pray that he'd leave her heart in peace and not show up. Unlike every other day, her thoughts are not divided.

_Not today._

Her whole being is focused into hoping that there are not interesting cases or experiments that the Holmes-Watson-Morstan (soon to be Watson) trio needs to solve or perform today. At least not one they would need her for. No, all she wants is for the clock to strike 7:30 and signal her day over. All she wants today is to put on her coat, _she won't even remove her lab coat if that saves her time_, march out the doors without anyone stopping her, walk as quickly as she could so she could avoid any surprises, avoid Sherlock Holmes, and see _him_ instead.

Him. The person who, bit by bit, makes her feel like she can do this. _Whatever this may be_. She glows, she's been looking forward to this all week. Only seven minutes to go before she can rush out of here and see the man that might have a fighting chance at helping her get over Sherlock Holmes. The only man that might compare.

_After all, both him and her had been victims of love and circumstance._ She's known him and his story for such a long time now and he understands her better than any other, strengthening her belief that if she ever had a chance of being happy despite living in constant pain, she'd find it in him.

If she thinks about it, one of the main reasons she's not wallowing in her unrequited love for the CEO-by-day super-sleuth-by-night is _him_. Just seeing him and being in his presence, it makes her feel lighter somehow. She wishes she could see him every day of the week, but considering they spend their hours in two different hospitals, it wouldn't be plausible. Today is the one day of the week that they get to spend time with each other, hence, the excitement. _Four minutes more…_

She'd hear his voice again. Not the deep, mysterious baritone her heart stops to, but a gentle firm voice that her heart gets massive comfort from. So far, it hasn't been enough to drown Sherlock's completely, but she hopes someday it will be.

She sighs in relief as she sees the minute hand hit the number 6. This might probably be the only day of the week when she's eager to leave the comfort of her morgue, and she casts one last sweeping glance at the room to make sure everything's in order before walking towards the doors. One hand on the coat rack, one hand on the light switch, her entire brain focused on getting to him… and the doors swing open.

_So close._

She moves herself instinctively to avoid getting hit by the door, her body _and her mood_ deflating rapidly.

"Ah, Molly!"

And there he is, Sherlock Holmes, in all his confident glory. John Watson follows closely behind, his face a mixture of frustration and gentle apology towards her and she knows that he tried to stop Sherlock from marching into her morgue after her shift. She gives him an _it's okay, I know how he is_ look before noticing that Mary isn't with them: Probably busy arranging the last minute details or passed out from the exhaustion of doing so. Meaning, she's going to have a much more difficult time trying to convince Sherlock to postpone whatever this visit is for and let her go.

_Great._

She realizes that she's been standing there like a post while Sherlock was already picking up her clipboard from the table. She turns to them, not knowing how to start.

"Sh-sherlock…" _Yes, that's great Molly. Start with a stutter. You idiot._

He looks directly at her and just like every other time, she feels like her body is being spellbound. His glance doesn't linger on her for too long though, his eyes darting back to her clipboard without so much as a _good evening_. His lips open to speak and she doesn't notice that she's holding her breath: One word and she'll probably freeze and melt at the same time. "Molly, I need you to wheel out body number 000-394 tonight. I have to check Mr. Antoine's knees." _There. Frozen on the outside, melted mess of a puddle on the inside. Like some sort of bizarre dessert._

A tiny part of her brain resumes function, and she thinks of _him_ waiting for her and it gives her a speck of courage, enough to open her mouth and speak. "I have p-plans…?" _Apparently not enough courage to speak like a normal human being._ Her statement comes out a question and she absolutely hates herself for that.

He doesn't even look up to acknowledge the silent _I can't assist you tonight, Sherlock_ beneath the three-word question-statement she had just muttered. Instead, he takes off his coat and places it on the back of the chair by her desk, ignoring John's heavy look of disapproval. "Sherlock, she said she has plans. Can't we just come back tomorrow?"

"Why would we? We're already here, it'll be most impractical to leave just to come back tomorrow for the same purpose." He flips though her logbook casually, as if occupying himself while she what he asked. "Molly, body number 394."

John looks at her, awkwardly standing there, obviously trying to think of what to say to counter the man who seemed to command the English language. He decides to give it one more try, just to help the poor girl. "Sherlock, her shift's over. You can't just expect her to stay!"

He really is starting to get bored, turning his attention to other files in her desk drawers. "Why not?"

The shorter man looks at him as if to say _I just gave you a reason!_ but he stops himself, rolling his eyes and deciding to use a different tactic. "Come on, Sherlock. Mary called me a while ago to tell me that she's doing her round of calls to all the wedding personnel tonight. Let's just go help her threaten the caterers, okay?" At Sherlock's lack of response, he fights the urge to just beat him up then drag his unconscious body back to the Holmes estate, _an urge that comes quite often_, but he keeps his smile up for at least one more attempt. "She also told me to keep you away from her until the wedding. Want to go annoy her? I know you love doing that." _Sorry Mary… I love you but you can hold your own against Sherlock better than Molly can._

Much to John's annoyance, the pseudo-detective barely acknowledges his suggestions, opting instead to just continue flipping through random files, obviously waiting for the pathologist to move and get him the body. The two doctors share a look, _actually, it's more of John apologizing to Molly through his eyes_, and Sherlock, tired of the idleness that has befallen them for thirty seconds now, turns to the still-speechless woman by the door. "This is starting to bore me terribly, Molly, and I must insist that you not make me repeat myself after this. Wheel out body three-hundred and ninety-four."

_After that, what else could she do but hide under a smile and obey?_

* * *

Note: And there it goes, the author hopes that this sets the initial tone of the existing Hooper-Holmes and Hooper-Watson relationships, combining canon and headcanon in this semi-alternate universe. What does the reader think? Reactions are always appreciated in all that one does, and most of the time, anticipated.

Also, the author had alluded (or all-too-obviously referred) to another rather influential British masterpiece (at least, a masterpiece in her opinion) in this chapter. She would not be ashamed to admit that she is slightly interested in whether the reader had caught the reference or not. Anyone?


	5. A Page Off the Warlock's Book

**A Good Old-Fashioned Fairytale**

Because every modern soul needs a good old-fashioned story.

* * *

old-fashioned: /ˌəʊld ˈfæʃ(ə)nd/

-in or according to styles or types no longer current

So what happens when the modern times patterns itself to the stories of old?

* * *

Chapter 5:

A Page Off the Warlock's Book

* * *

She tries her best, _she really does_, to not be so easily read, both for her sake and that of the ones observing her. Be it her family, or her friends, or _him_. She never wanted, wants, or will want to worry them about whatever anguish they might read off her body language, and so she tries hard to keep what she can to herself. _After all, it isn't hiding if they're not actively searching, right?_

However, standing in a room with Sherlock Holmes, hide-and-seek takes on a different, much more difficult meaning. Is there even any sense in trying to hide from Sherlock? Businessmen that have spent their whole lives lying their way to the top, fooling the law and the people effortlessly have had their charades proven useless when facing the perception of the Holmes duo, it's almost laughable for a meek, honest, clear-as-a-window pathologist such as herself to keep up a façade when Sherlock is in proximity.

But still… she tries.

She tries to wheel out the body that he wants without frowning, she tries to open the body bag with a smile while he looks on beside her. She tries not to let disappointment glaze her eyes as she listens to his amazing deductions once again, trying instead to let awe cover the frustration beneath. She tries not to let the eagerness to leave seep through her voice when she tells him all her findings from the autopsy, fighting every instinct to look at the clock and sigh as she speaks. She tries to act normally, _as normally as she could around Sherlock_, every ounce of her determination going into not letting her sorrow show.

_Not tonight._ She would not allow Sherlock to deduce where she's going, to whom she's running off, _why. _Sherlock could go right ahead and deduce every other thing about her, but not this. Not the beautiful thing she has with the man waiting for her. Sherlock could go ahead and insult her intellect, disapprove of her appearance, belittle her personality but she would not let the sleuth's lips utter anything negative about _him._

_I know him much more than Sherlock does. I know who _he_ is. Sherlock will not ruin it for me._

She is determined and for the most part, she succeeds. Thirty minutes have passed and not one peep about her destroyed evening has escaped her lips or Sherlock's. John seems very impressed at her, believing that she could be that professional, to shrug off her plans in the name of forensic pathology. She is relieved that John doesn't notice, but as she realizes once again when she stands by Sherlock to assist his observation, John Watson _is not_ _Sherlock Holmes. _

"You look sad."

Her eyes widen as she turns her head towards him. He's not even looking at her, his eyes trained to the corpse in front of them. She swallows and attempts to act as if she has no idea on where his statement could have been based. "W-what?"

He continues his active observation of the body, not really giving much thought to the current conversation. It's a side deduction after all, not related to the case he had squeezed out of Lestrade when he came to the Holmes' headquarters to talk with Mycroft about some sort of minor security breach. A side deduction, therefore _not important_. "You look sad, when you think I can't see you."

Sometimes it's hard to process a simple statement, but such a sentence coming from Sherlock Holmes's lips is just downright impossible to react to. She already knows that from past experience, but somehow Sherlock has always had the spell to render her vocal chords useless. Her eyes shift quickly to John who's currently copying the notes she'd made into another piece of paper, wondering if he could hear them.

"You're forgetting that I see everything, Molly. Subtle glances on the floor, your eyes get sudden looks of determination, as if convincing yourself not to be sad. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of the time and a slight twitch in your lips show your struggle to fight a sigh. Now I must insist that you stop that, it's unnecessary and frankly a bit annoying. You missed a date, I don't see why you're so upset over that."

Freezing is a generally negative reaction, usually attributed to panic and/or defeat, both of which she knows she is right now: panicked and defeated. She tries to get herself to speak. _Come on Molly. Words. Just say some words._

"I… uhm… it's… d-date?"

_Fantastic, Hooper. Well done. Apparently you don't think you already look pathetic enough._

Sherlock stops what he's doing, letting a labored sigh express his annoyance at being interrupted by what once again could be considered as non-Holmesian perception, or to Sherlock, plain stupidity. "Yes. You were supposed to meet with a man. Older than you. Much older. You're not particularly fond of jewelry but you're wearing a necklace right now, a gift from him then. The style is not current at all, very traditional, a taste that most commonly comes with age. You're very attached to him, so much that you're willing to wear a particularly cheap, even tacky accessory just for him. It doesn't matter though, I can tell you now that he's not romantically interested in you at all. That necklace has so much aging in it that it obviously had a previous owner, ergo, he didn't buy that specifically for you. Didn't even bother to polish it. That and the fact that you're already an hour late for your date and your phone hasn't even rung once. No calls, not even a text of concern? He's not interested, Molly, and I say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Silence. No matter how many times she's been an audience to Sherlock's brilliant deductions or an object of his cruel ones, stunned will always be the perfect word to describe her after.

He turns his attention back to the corpse, but after a few moments of unresponsiveness from the pathologist, he opens his mouth again and more bullets come out. "Stop sulking, Molly. It's impeding my thought process. Now let's concentrate on more useful things than you wasting your time on unimportant escapades with random men you falsely think can make you happy." He reaches his hand out and smiles as if he didn't just drive Molly Hooper to humiliation once again. "So, gloves?"

She can feel the familiar stinging in her eyes and she's afraid to blink, because the movement might push the tears out and she is _not_ going to let herself cry just because of _words_. "I'll… j-just go get you and John some coffee."

She all but runs out.

* * *

Note: As usual, the author would like to, albeit a bit shyly, invite the reader to leave his or her opinions, suggestions, criticisms, musings, or anything the reader might be interested in letting her know, and offer her gratitude to the reader in advance.

One never knows, a name in a fleeting moment may be immortalized in the next.


	6. Her Knight in Shining Armor

**A Good Old-Fashioned Fairytale**

Because every modern soul needs a good old-fashioned story.

* * *

old-fashioned: /ˌəʊld ˈfæʃ(ə)nd/

-in or according to styles or types no longer current

So what happens when the modern times patterns itself to the stories of old?

* * *

Chapter 6:

Her Knight in Shining Armor

* * *

When she comes back into the room, she's carrying two cups of coffee and a smile. The pooling lake in her eyes had obeyed her and dried itself up before any waterfalls formed. A sense of pride filled her slightly in that ladies' room, reaching for the tissue roll only to realize that there were no tears to wipe. _Well, shed tears, anyway. _ She stared at herself in the mirror until the sting in her eyes dulled, and after a few minutes when it did just that without letting a single droplet leak out, she allowed herself a small smile.

_I'm getting better at this crying thing._

After all, she's cried _a lot_ in her twenty-seven years, and she wonders if her body is starting to develop some sort of prevention mechanism to conserve the water in her system. She gives the men their coffee and proceeds to show once again the reasons why Sherlock Holmes has unofficially anointed her as his go-to pathologist. She observes and her analysis is straight and precise, her input useful. Her knowledge of her field is commendable and she willingly offers her professional assistance should it be needed. Working with her is never hard for the CEO and his two companions.

If she happens to glance at a mirror, she's sure Mirror Molly would roll her eyes again. _It's because you let him walk all over you, Molly. That's why he's here, because you love him and whether he knows it or not, he'll keep taking you for all you're worth, because you'll keep letting him._

Two hours pass and she's on her knees, scrubbing the last of the chemical splatters on the floor from when John knocked over a residue vial as they were just finishing. John had offered to clean it up, but she wasn't going to let her guests scrub her floor. Thankfully it's nothing reactive, and she could actually just leave it for the kind janitor to clean in the morning, but she doesn't want to do that either. Sherlock and John had left about half-an-hour ago and she's already done most of the tidying: Again, John had offered to stay behind and help, _with Sherlock standing indifferently behind him_, but she sent them both home before John could pick up a sponge.

The last dot finally comes off and she stands, wincing at the painful sensation in her knees. Her eyes travel once again to the clock, and once again she's filled with disappointment.

_Was he waiting for me? Is he still waiting?_

She finds herself hoping that it was busy at the other hospital tonight, that he had plenty more to occupy himself with. She's always been the early one in school, with friends, at work, _everywhere_… which also means she's always the one waiting. She's learned to accept that, and what's more is that her innate selfless willingness to _always_ be the one waiting has driven her to completely abhor having to make others wait. Call it a severe lack of self-importance, but she's never really seen herself as something people would whole-heartedly wait for, and the last thing she wants to do is force them to.

With one last sigh as she places the rags into the cupboard, she convinces herself not to be too down. They meet ever week, it's not like she can only talk to him once in a blue moon. It's not like he won't understand, either. She nods to herself, determined not to dwell on it for the next seven days, but she barely manages two steps before the heavy disappointment settles in her gut again.

She _wants_ to see him.

And the though that she has to wait more than 160 hours to see him again after having already waited that long since she last did makes her even more annoyed with herself.

_If you had only had the spine to talk like a normal person to Sherlock, you wouldn't have been stuck here. _

He must've been worried when she didn't show up, even though she did call the hospital front desk to leave a message for him. The thought of him being disappointed pains her the most, but as luck would have it, there's nothing she could do.

_Or is there?_

Her eyes immediately fly to the bulletin board and she all but runs towards it. She immediately sees the schedule for tomorrow. _Only one autopsy in line, no extra paperwork, and a partial laboratory inventory._ Things seem very tame for tomorrow, and she looks at the shifts, finally seeing something she wants to see. _Her co-senior pathologist will be on duty, as well as two juniors._ She smiles. For once, Head Pathologist Hooper will not be needed, and tomorrow, she could be just _Mol._

She whips out her phone, _no calls, no texts, no surprise about that,_ and fires off a quick text to notify Dr. Granger of her planned half-day tomorrow. She has ignored all her day-offs for the past seven months that the kind veteran pathologist will just be glad that she's taking a breather. She contemplates calling the other hospital, but she decides against it. She can imagine surprising him on his free time, and thinking of his smile alone restores her damaged mood to its previous giddy state.

The lights close in the morgue, and the whole hallway falls silent except for the sound of gentle footsteps. If one listens extremely closely, one might notice a very slight, almost minute irregularity in the mostly patterned sound. But of course, it might just be the slight skip in the pathologist's steps.

* * *

"Why not just transfer to Bart's?"

Here she is, sitting in the cafeteria, eating food that's acceptable at best. The man sitting in front of her sighs. "Mol, we've talked about this."

It's her turn to give a sigh, her lips involuntarily pouting slightly. "I know. I just don't get why you don't want to move there. That way, we can see each other everyday…"

The man chuckles. "You'd grow bored of me very quickly if that's the case." A pointed look from Molly's face shows her disagreement. "Besides, London is too expensive."

"But—"

"Mol." He uses his serious voice, wanting to get his point across, like he's don a lot of times before. "You're busy enough as it is, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate you taking the time to come here every week. I feel bad enough that I can't do the same for you. I'd rather not be a bigger distraction than I already am."

She frowns. "You're not a distraction to me, you know that. I always look forward to talking to you. It's why I'm trying to get you to go to St. Bart's! I'll handle everything, don't worry…"

He smiles gently at her. "I know you will, sweetheart. That's why I don't want to transfer to your hospital. You're not supposed to be the one fussing over me. It should be the other way around." Her lips open, ready to retaliate, but he's anticipated it, cutting her off before she could start. "Concentrate on yourself, Mol. What you're doing now… well, that's more than enough."

"Fine. But I don't want you thinking you're a distraction. If ever, you're helping me rid my mind of _real distractions_." The slight sigh that comes out of her slightly-chapped lips is unmissable. To him at least.

He continues eating, looking at Molly through the corner of his eye. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Waving her hand to the side, she shrugs him off, trying her best to be indifferent about the topic. "We don't have to talk about him." When he merely keeps on eating, Molly resists the urge to curse Sherlock out loud. Here she is, talking to quite possibly the best man she has ever known, and somehow the conversation drifts to Sherlock-flipping-Holmes. "Seriously, I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Her companion smiles at his food. "Even if we don't talk about it, I will still be uncomfortable with the idea of you being in pain because of that man." He chews, he swallows, his voice is even as he speaks. He knows her well, after all. "You love him."

Looking at him, she feels incredibly selfish to be tormenting him with her pitiful problems. "I'm trying my best to get over it, I promise—"

"You and I both know it's not _that_ easy, Mol."

The look on his face, that strong, smiling face that bravely hides the pain, is enough to make her feel like the most terrible person on the face of a planet that contains thieves, murderers, and Sherlock Holmes. "L-look, you don't have to worry about Sherlock. It's not… I m-mean, there's nothing between us—"

Again, that look of understanding, that _don't worry, I'm not angry_ expression of his that makes her want to beat herself over with a stick, appears on his face. "I can't do anything if you're in love with him, you know." His voice falters just slightly, and Molly knows he's managed to somehow blame himself. "I just don't like seeing you hurting. That you're going through this alone."

She wants to scream _It's not your fault!_, but she doesn't want to make a scene. Instead, she reaches over the table to hold his hand. "I'm not alone. _You're _here. I never feel alone. Don't you worry about that."

His hand turns underneath hers and he grasps her hand tenderly, trying to convey how grateful _he_ is even though _she's _supposed to be the one saying thanks. He takes his hand back to resume its perch on his fork, and he decides it's time to change the topic. After he manages to swallow a rather stubborn piece of meat, he gulps down half-a-glass of water before speaking. "Your friends are getting married next week, right?"

A nod. "Yes. On Friday."

"How's the piano practice going? Did you tell the couple that you're probably just going to faint in the middle of their first dance?" he asks her teasingly, knowing just how shy she can get around an audience. Especially if that audience contained _that man_.

Her face scrunches up in mock offense, reaching over to slap his arm lightly, "Hey! I'll have you know that I've perfected my piece a week ago." She blushes, looking down at her food. "But yeah, I told the bride. She's still forcing me to play."

His chuckle helps ease her sudden nervousness. "I'm sure you'll do great. Make sure to give me a copy of the video, okay?"

Prodding him once again, Molly pouts. "Why don't you just come with me then? Mary did give me a plus-1, and—"

He cuts her off. "Nonsense. I will just be a bother. Besides, I have quite a few procedures lined up next week and this woman is paying the hospital ridiculous amounts of money to have them done. I can't exactly just get out of it."

With an unescaped sigh on her lips, she concedes. "Fine. I'll give you a copy next time we meet."

"Good." He looks at her sternly. "I want you to have fun, but not _too_ much fun. I know how people can get at weddings. Just remember your principles, Mol."

She smirks. "Are you kidding me? I am so going to get drunk and go home with a complete stranger…" At his continuously stern and slightly horrified look, she reacts with a pointed look of her own. "Come on, You know me. You have absolutely nothing to worry about."

He visibly relaxes at her words, but a certain protective worry still lingers on his face. "Just make sure of it, okay? You never know how that Sherlock Holmes person might act if he's drunk."

"Sherlock doesn't drink."

"You told me he used to be addicted to drugs. He might relapse and shift." He looks at her knowingly. "And I'm afraid that because you're so captivated by him, you might be too weak to fend him off if he tries something on you."

Starting to get annoyed by having this conversation again and again every time the talk, she rolls her eyes exaggeratedly at him. _Does he not have any confidence in me? Or trust, at least?_ "We've been through this before. Even if by some ridiculous happening he throws himself at me, I will not give in. Even if I do love him. It's not going to happen, okay? Stop worrying, seriously. Besides…" Her hand gently touches the pendant resting between her collarbones. "Someone waited. I want to follow the example."

Comfortable silence envelopes the two, before he catches sight og a nurse entering the cafeteria, clearly looking for him. "Guess I better be going. Seems like they need me now." He smiles. "Now stand up and give me a hug."

Molly laughs, standing from her seat and embracing him tightly. "I'll see you next week, okay?"

"I'm looking forward to it already. Don't forget the video copy! Make sure you don't faint, otherwise the staff here is going to have something to laugh at once you're out of the building." he teases her with a laugh, which is then rewarded but another light punch on his arm. "I love you, Mol. Take care always, okay? Say your prayers and do your best everyday."

She smiles at him, squeezing him one more time before letting go and kissing his forehead. "I love you too…" She smiles one last smile at him.

"…Dad."

* * *

Note: _Every girl always has her father (or brother or even mother) as her first knight in shining armor. _The author recognizes that quite a few of her readers have expected this to be a romantic encounter, but now, she would like to invite the reader to re-read it (or even just skim it) with the revelation the he is, indeed, her father. The author hopes that this chapter has set the situation of her and her father, as well as their relationship.

With that said, Mr. Hooper mentioned something about a woman paying ridiculous amounts of money to have procedures done. Would the reader be interested in venturing an inference, or even a guess, as to who this woman is? The answer is all over this chapter, and the author would be ecstatic if someone had picked up on it. It's nothing clever, just something to strengthen the reader's interpretation of the chapter. :)


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